


In Love, In War

by Pigmi



Series: Office Boys [1]
Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Cheating, F/M, M/M, Ryo and Michael are NOT twins/bros in this eek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigmi/pseuds/Pigmi
Summary: Ryo stays late and Akira does too, and eventually after they’ve hooked up on every surface in his office(including Michael’s desk— fuck you, Michael.)Ryo takes him home for the sake of variety.They fuck like rabbits or more like wolves, clawing and desperate on the crisp white sheets of his california king. And when they finish(breatheless and bitten and bruised)Ryo kicks him out to languish in the guilt of fucking someone other than his girlfriend.(Akira has always been good at multitasking. It’s how he managed to fuck his girlfriend, his boss, and himself— all at the same time.)





	1. Casus Belli

**Author's Note:**

> \- obligatory pwease read the tags, this is a not very moral relationship dynamic n if it isn't ur cup of tea pwease avoid ;;
> 
> \- ryo's characterization is super self-indulgent here, but that's the fun of fanwork hah. 
> 
> \- i've avoided devilman lady like the plague, so I'm not too familiar w/ the michael situation, other than reading a summary and the wiki. from what i read (which didn't explicitly state their relationship), i interpreted it like they were both the two main henchmen to mob boss God, rather than bros? regardless, they're definitely not related in this fic!
> 
> -most parts of these were written as drabbles in an AU collection rather than one cohesive piece, so the pacing might seem off/disjointed sowwy ;;

**Casus Belli**

_Latin; "an act or event that provokes or is used to justify war (literally, "a case of war")_

 

**i.**

The knock comes at 8pm on a Thursday night. The frosted glass of his office gives little away, but he knows who it is. He _always_ knows who it is. Call it intuition or an overly managed schedule, but Ryo Asuka can count the number of times he’s been genuinely surprised on one hand, and he has every intention of keeping it that way.

His eyes stay pinned to the latest round of client notes when he mutters a soft “come in” at the interruption. It’s only when a pair of black skinnies appear in his peripheral vision that he bothers to give Akira his attention.

His producer doesn’t bother with pleasantries, just presents a pale yellow folder marked ‘Deliverables’ and waits for Ryo to thumb it through. Either passing it off as adequate, or demanding they pack revisions into an already strained schedule.

He knows that there are certain types of masochism that he can talk Akira into, but the later is not one of them.

“Looks good. ” Ryo assesses after a tense wait, irreverently tossing the summation of his ten hour workday onto the pile of manila folders lining his desk. Akira looks offended by the treatment, but before he can vocalize a complaint, he’s being shoved onto the surface and straddled with a lap full of Armani.

“Fuck me.” Ryo demands and it isn’t a surprise to either of them when Akira obeys.

It isn’t gentle, either.

It’s teeth and tongue against his throat, danger and delight. Ryo whispers dirty words, dirty phrases into his ear— coy and cutting and that’s what’s so satisfying about fucking him. He doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss or kill, so he marks his body with the evidence of both. Little traces of Ryo that he’s carved into his shoulder blades in violent half-moons— or bruises, lovingly bloomed under the heat of his tongue. Akira’s back is a lexicon of their time together, a canvas he doesn’t need a brush to press ( _claw, ruin, tear_ ) a plethora of colors into.

Ryo keeps his desk lamp on this time, glimmering salaciously in the dim lighting, covered in sweat when Akira seats him at the edge of his desk. No preamble when he slips between pale thighs and sinks in, like a hot knife through butter, to the hilt.

He is trembling. He is wet breaths and sharp, demanding cries, and he is strong legs around his back, welcoming him in. He is tight and small, and Akira tells him as much, grunting against Ryo’s jaw with every snap of his hips.

He wants to see him flush and sweat, to look ruined for him. Arching into his touch, and whispering his name on every stuttered breath. Raking blunt nails down his chest as they fuck to the soundtrack of creaking wood and slapping skin.

Ryo doesn’t realize he’s panting, “Come, come, come” right into Akira’s flushed ear until he’s being pounded into with enough force to make him see white. It doesn’t take long for him to finish at that pace, mouth bowing around a moan that sounds suspiciously like Akira’s name, and that seems to do the trick because he’s tumbling after Ryo like a dog led by a leash.

In a few seconds, everything is too sensitive and he grinds to a halt, slowly prying his fingers off of Ryo’s skin and pulling back. Ryo groans when he slips out, thighs trembling in a smear of white. It’s a pretty sight but Ryo can’t spare the strength to peer between his legs and admire the raw, tender evidence of Akira’s claim.

His head tips back between his shoulders, breathing hard at the ceiling and swiping at the wet fringe of his hair. He’s caged in by a blanket of sweaty limbs and Akira’s hand, one still braced against his hip as dips forward to rest his forehead at the hollow of his throat. The other traps at his side and it feels proprietary in a way that Ryo almost, _almost_ asks about.

It isn’t the first time he’s struck with the desire to say something, but he hopes it will be the last.

A hope that’s gone unanswered for the past few months, ever since this feeling burrowed itself into the narrow confines of his chest. It looks like Akira isn’t the only one getting interrupted today though, and before Ryo can get a word out, the tinny opening chords to an old cartoon filter out from beneath Akira’s discarded jeans.

“That’s probably Miki.” He mutters against his collarbone, and for better or for worse, that isn’t a surprise either. “I should answer it.”

Because it would be rude, of course. Not picking up your girlfriend’s calls.

 

**ii.**

Unfortunately Ryo is a rude person, and he takes an unhealthy amount of satisfaction in doing this. In fucking with Akira’s life. Not that it started that way. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and Ryo has no qualms with taking the fast lane.

It feels like he’s been on it for a while now, anyway. Even before his father died. Even before he was straddled with running his company. Even before Michael slides into his office to inform him of the new client he’d tossed onto his plate. As if juggling three others wasn’t enough.

Michael, who’s official title would be ‘Managing Director’ if Ryo didn’t exclusively refer to him as ‘ _Fuck, not that asshole._ ’

As if this day could get any fucking worse.

“Jenny” he smothers the frustration from his tone when he calls for his assistant, despite wearing a scowl only two people can put on his face. One of which is (thankfully? _thankfully_.) dead, and the other: strolling out of Ryo’s office with a La Croix he’d pilfered from the mini-fridge.

“Tell Zen that he has twenty minutes to get me a producer on this, or he’ll be back to being a forty year old PA. Whoever it is— have them take up Ghelmer’s old desk. Un-fucking-believable that we fired him a _month_ ago and Michael thinks he can drop _another_ job on me without lifting a godamn finger to replace him.”

At least Zen does his job right, because twenty five minutes later (He contemplates shaving those extra five minutes off Zennon’s— _what the fuck kind of name is Zennon, anyway_ — **Zen’s** salary) there’s a knock at his door.

This is how Akira Fudo walks into his life:

Tall, dark, handsome, and most importantly— carrying the 15” macbook pro synonymous with commercial producers.

“I was originally hired on to handle some live-action work, but Zen told me there was a change of plans?” He explains after brief introductions are made and he’s seated across the island of his desk. “He didn’t seem too happy about it, though.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit. This is very important.” Ryo’s palm slides off his face with a world weary look, evidently more sorry for himself than he is Akira. “Looks like Netflix is rebooting an old cartoon that used to air on TV Asahi, and despite being short staffed around here — we’re in the running to handle the advertising for it.”

“No worries, I’m happy to hop on anything.” His smile greets him with a charming pair of canines. “You’re the boss, after all.”

And oh, Ryo likes him already.

“Can I ask what cartoon, though? You’re getting my hopes up that it’s Doraemon.”

Ryo snorts as he swivels his screen around to reveal the bright red gash splattered across the display—  the design brief he’d been mulling over for the twenty five minutes it took to ship Akira Fudo to his office.

“Actually, It’s Devilman.”

 

**iii.**

That part makes sense, at least. He knows how Akira got here, how he’d settled under Ryo’s dynamic with surprising ease. But it’s the details in-between that get a little fuzzy. He doesn’t know when he’d first looked at Akira and thought, _I want to fuck him_ , but fucking was precisely what they were going to do once Akira showed an inclination for it.

 _If_ Akira showed an inclination for it.

( _He does, of course. He sees the appreciative glances, the way they dip to the bow of his mouth when he speaks. Ryo might be unresponsive, but he isn’t dense._ )

It’s much easier to understand how Akira ended up in this situation, too. It takes Ryo less than a week to deduce that for all his muscle, it’s a shallow compensation for the heart stitched to his sleeve. And when he comes into work one morning with red eyes and a sniffle that most certainly isn’t a cold, Ryo’s hardly surprised when 9pm rolls around and Akira is still at his desk, plugging away.

Late nights meant late alcohol, and he can’t get past two fingers of top shelf whiskey ( _generously donated from Ryo’s minifridge_ ) before he admits why he wasn’t spending Friday night like any sane, well adjusted twenty five year old with a girlfriend would.

It had been a bad fight and an even worse idea to stay late to avoid the aftermath. Running away from a situation only to find yourself running into an entirely new one? They had drank and drank until the heat of the alcohol was indistinguishable from the heat of Ryo’s mouth, fit against him in a spontaneous bout of inebriated desire. And it should’ve stopped there, with the light push against his chest and the faint murmur of Miki Makimura’s name, but Ryo likes to finish what he starts and when he feels Akira’s resolve slip off his shoulders like the black button down he wears every fucking day, he kisses her name right off his overly compliant tongue.

 

**iv.**

They don't talk about it, after.

To Akira’s credit, he makes an effort to, but Ryo doesn't want to hear it. Ryo is, in fact, _so_ uninterested in hearing it that he outright bans the conversation.

“ _Don’t_ .” He severs Akira’s moral quandary with a neat gesture. “If you don’t want this to happen again, It won’t. But I am _not_ getting involved in a lovers spat, and if you can’t keep your legs shut, for fuck’s sake— let your mouth learn the lesson.”

He says _lover_ like he peeled it from the bottom of his shoe. Akira looks like he wants to either protest or puke, but miraculously, he stays quiet.

And Ryo knows it’s unfair to guilt him into silence, especially when the entire encounter wasn’t done under the most moral of pretenses. But Ryo doesn’t understand why Akira can’t just take the out.  

He was being completely honest when he said he couldn’t give a shit. Ryo has extensive practice in sectioning off parts of himself and tucking them away, and as good as Akira had been in bed ( _or more accurately, over his desk_ ), he feels absolutely nothing at the thought of it never happening again. There would be no incriminating texts, no smears of lipstick staining his collar, no mutual friends to rat them out when Ryo didn't _have_ any.

It can stay a one-time thing. Akira can have his cake and eat it too.

Miki Makimura will be none the wiser.

 

 **v**.

....Only it isn’t a one time thing.

Akira goes through the motions, of course. He looks properly guilty over the next few weeks. There’s a lot of moping, spacing out, and every conversation from him takes on a clipped, impersonal edge. Ryo catches him crying in the bathroom one day and almost thinks he’s done it. He’s told his girlfriend and now, not only will Ryo have to brace for his Porsche to be vandalized— he’ll have to find another producer too.

But when another week passes and his car goes unkeyed, it’s obvious that Miki Makimura’s still in the dark. Infact, a furtive glance at Akira’s pinging phone reveals that they were planning to get lunch together, how sweet.

For all his tears and lunch dates though, Akira seems to get over his moral dilemma _real_ quick. Because there is a next time. A _sober_ next time. And while Ryo doesn’t _care_ , Ryo _lusts_ , and why should he get in the way of Akira wrecking his own relationship when he isn’t the one with a fistful of blonde hair, guiding him down to the silver button of his skinnies.

( _"Just call me Ryo," he suggested the first time Akira had fumbled over his name. A hilarious conflict of workplace etiquette when your boss was knuckle deep inside you. "Or you can keep calling me sir, if that's what you're into.")_

A habit is easy to form. It’s just an action repeated over and over and over again. It seemed to happen with an unquestionable certainty. Like coffee in the morning. Like his slightly crooked smile when he finds him at work every day. ( _Early, as usual_.)

Ryo stays late and Akira does too and eventually, after they’ve hooked up on every surface in his office ( _including Michael’s desk— fuck you, Michael_ )— Ryo takes him home for the sake of variety.

They fuck like rabbits or more like wolves, clawing and desperate on the crisp white sheets of his california king. And when they finish ( _breatheless and bitten and bruised_ ), Ryo will unceremoniously kick him out to languish in the guilt of fucking someone other than his girlfriend.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering if Akira does.

Despite him initiating most of their time together, he never seemed particularly... happy those first few months. Not _un_ happy, per say—but lost. Directionless. Like he’d taken a tumble and these nights were the only thing keeping his footing in check.

He figures with someone as aimless as Akira though, there is something comforting ( _and perhaps familiar_ ) about someone taking control of his life.  
  
Even if it’s just to tear it apart.

 

**vi.**

They’ve taken a liking to tearing eachother apart, though. Verbally. With much gusto. Ryo realizes he fucked up by letting the first interruption slide without kicking him to the curb, and now Akira thinks he can do this. Have things like _familiarity_ with Ryo, banter, and even worse— _opinions_.

“Fuck you, We’re not using that design.”

“No, fuck you. You’re just angry because you know I’m right.”

Ryo spins around and points accusingly in Akira’s direction. “How many times do I have to tell you, Akira, you are never right. _Ever_.”

“That’s not true-”

“It is a thousand fucking percent true.”

“Stop exaggerating, it’s—”

“You’re wrong, shut the fuck up.”

“I’m not wrong, stop telling me I’m wrong!”

“Perhaps.” Jenny slides in through the doorway and wedges a pitcher of water between their… conversation. Michael looks relieved at the interruption from his spot on Ryo’s couch— Where he’d been sipping at his Melon Pomelo La Croix and trying _very hard_ not to kill himself. “We should all just calm down.”

“We’re calm,” they say in unison, and to Jenny’s credit, she doesn’t flinch. Michael, however, is not convinced. He’d come here to let Ryo know that the budget’s been approved, and somehow got roped into mediating this trainwreck.

“You’ve been fighting for twenty minutes.”

“We’re not fighting,” Akira reasons. “We’re arguing.”

“Debating.” Ryo snaps.

_“Discussing.”_ They decide. 

Michael opens his mouth to speak, but quickly rethinks that course of action. He shakes his head as he peels himself up from the couch— what he should’ve done eighteen minutes ago.

“Just don’t give anyone a black eye,” he warns on his way out. “HR is already up to _here_ with you, Ryo.”

 

**vii.**

Akira is intent on giving him the silent treatment for the rest of the day. Every interaction is filtered through a passive aggressive email, and Ryo can hear his fingers banging an angry rhythm across his keyboard with every message sent.

Inbox (1) has never sounded so violent.

Until that night, neither had their sex.

 

**viii.**

“...So it turns out the client came back with notes, and you were right. They prefer Version A. We’ll have the changes in by noon.”

Ryo doesn’t think about when Akira became someone he was comfortable admitting that too. He just drops a can of coffee on his desk, the price of surrender, and slumps into his seat with a yawn.

_(and a wince. Akira pretends not to notice, and Ryo pretends the ensuring smirk is not attractive.)_

“...Thank you?”

Akira looks confused at the gesture though and Ryo doesn’t blame him. Mostly because they don’t usually— they don’t usually do this kind of thing. Ryo is so out of the context he can comprehend him in, just this tiny coffee, this tiny admission— it still sets him off-kilter everytime something like familiarity strikes between them.

Before, there was rarely an overlap in the two distinct ways he interacted with Akira, and that was usually between demanding a spreadsheet and demanding to be fucked.

But that’s…. changed. And now there’s this hazy in between. One that comes after a few months of— of whatever this is. The closest thing to postcoitial bliss he can get out of a man who’s spine only learned how to unwind in isolation. And it could be the sex, it could be the weed, but whatever it is, it loosens Ryo’s tongue enough to consider something he formerly thought beneath him— pillowtalk.

“I wonder if inheriting the business was his way of trying to kill me.” His laugh explodes in a thick plume of smoke— something Akira’s gotten used to when Ryo started letting him stay after. ( _Just for a little bit. Just for a while_.) “Fucker always knew how to bid his time. No wonder he didn’t just bump me off the will for Michael. ”

“... Michael?” Akira makes a questioning noise, still winded from earlier activities and not quite connecting the dots. ”You mean the managing director, Michael?”

“No, my twin brother. Yes, you fuck— _Michael_. Why do you think we’re always at each other’s throats? I mean, aside from my winning personality.” He waves the joint in an offhand flick of self-deprecation. Akira manages a wry smile, wisely choosing to keep his mouth shut than agree.

”We’re not related or anything, but we grew up together. His father was the previous director and a close family friend. By all legal accounts, I own the company, but dad and I had a… _tenuous_ relationship at best. And Michael was always—”

 _Always showing me up_ , a petty part of him supplements. _Always the son he wanted_.

“A kiss ass.” He substitutes instead. “I’d wrapped up my degree at eighteen. **Eighteen** . And Michael would charm him with stories from his freshman year at Cambridge, like I didn’t just _graduate_ four years ahead of him. He always was impressed by flashy shit with no substance— Explains why he married my mother.”

Akira’s quiet through his rant— good to know the one way to shut him up was to get personal. At least they had that in common. Had he been sober, he’d be more inclined to just—stop. But it could be the sex, it could be the weed— he keeps _going_.

“Of the two people you’re fucking, bet you didn’t think the CEO would be both your side chick and the psycho with daddy issues, huh?”

Ryo muses as he grinds the smoldering roach into the well-used astray on his nightstand.

“I always loved breaking stereotypes.”

 

**ix.**

He can tell Akira still wants to talk about it.

Ryo counters this by steering the conversation to other things— Things like Akira running track in highschool, and four years later, surviving broke university life on rice and bonito flakes. He learns during the nights when they’re just as tangled in work as they are eachother, that he likes being a mediator, and that’s why production suits him so well. That he was being serious when he named Doraemon as his favorite cartoon character.

None of it veers into particularly personal territory after _that_ night, but there aren’t many people who know that Ryo can shoot a gun as well as a camera. Or that he’s a bit of a brand snob that owns exactly four duplicates of Burberry's Sisal trench coat, and eight copies of Saint James’ tunic in _Phare_. And despite being a commercial creative director by trade— he much prefers fine art along the vein of Domoto Hisao or Agnes Martin.

He could blame it on the proximity, but he’s never talked this much to Jenny or Michael, and there’s just something so... easygoing about Akira’s company. Easygoing and— enjoyable in a way that feels less like chess and more like friendship.

So they talk about ten thousand different things over the next three months.

But they don’t talk about _it_.

 

**x.**

“You’re sick.”

Ryo frowns, peering over the thick frames of his Warby Parkers. “That’s a little excessive, even from you. I know I can be demanding, but-”

“Oh my god. No. You’re like— literally sick. This is the third box of tissues you’ve used in the past hour. Go home.”

Ryo looks at Akira as if he suggested he fling himself off the 60th floor, or something equally foolish.

“I’m fine.” He retorts. Or wants to retort, if his body didn’t rebel against him with the sudden, violent upheavel of his breakfast.

”...Okay, I’ve been better.” The admission is grudging when he returns from the bathroom after flushing his mouth out with listerine.  “Just— ask a PA to get me cold medicine or something.”

“ Wait, where’s Jenny?”

“It’s her week off— She’s vacationing in the sunny hell of Hawaii with her wife.” There’s an awkward, stunned pause that Ryo immediately relates to. “I know. It took me a while to wrap my head around the idea that she had more than two facial expressions. Feelings too? _Groundbreaking_.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Irritated, horny, and apathetic are still more than two emotions, Akira.” He replies smartly, only to be interrupted by Michael’s footsteps breezing down the hallway.

“You look like shit.” The director adds mid-stride, helpful as always. Ryo wonders if it’s worth another HR lecture to throw his steaming mug of camomile right at his smarmy fucking face and decides it’s not even worth a _Michael_ lecture. He does flip the bird to his retreating back though, right before slumping onto his desk with a groan.

“On second thought, take me home. His face just made the nausea worse.”

 

**xi.**

Ryo would rather crawl home than let anyone drive his Porsche, but throwing up on it’s reupholstered Italian leather would be unspeakably tragic. When he sees the alternative though— Akira’s gleaming black Suzuki—he reconsiders.

“Last week you showed up to work in eyeliner, and I thought— there’s just no fucking way he can look _more_ like a tool than he already is. But I stand corrected. Congratulations, Fudo.”

He’s wearing a leather jacket, too. Ryo knows both their sideburns are overgrown and outdated, but this. This just too much. He was born in 1992, not 1972.

“I can call you a cab, but you’d be waiting an extra....10 minutes, maybe?”

Ryo feels his stomach tighten and heave, making the decision for him. “Uh, yeah— No.”

Akira nods, expecting as much.

“C’mon, let’s get you home. Try not to throw up on me. Or fall off. If you feel li--”

“-Akira?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

 

**xii.**

Miraculously they make it to Ryo’s apartment without incident. It’s only when he’s stepped through the door that his legs buckle under him in a sudden bout of dizziness. It takes a few sluggish seconds to realize just how much he’s aching inside— and no, that wasn’t a jab at his emotional state. He genuinely feels like curling up and withering away.

Akira doesn’t let him though, firmly deciding that Ryo either go to the hospital, or deal with him staying here. The ultimatum is unappealing, but he relents to the later— even if it doesn’t stop him from being difficult when the producer helps him change into a tank top and a pair of linen lounge pants. There’s a greasy “ _Nothing I haven’t seen before_ ” that Ryo would have a remark to, if his brain didn’t feel like it was slopping against the insides of his skull.

Akira reheats some leftover miso soup and spoon feeds it to the delirious blonde. Delirious could be an exaggeration, but not only did his temperature hit 40°C half an hour ago, the fact that he’s letting Akira do this in the first place— take care of him— is frankly so out of character, he has no other way to label it.

He feels cold and clammy, and to his horror— clingy.  Akira’s fingers smooth back the sweat-slick strands of his hair, and he feels himself turning into it, like a cat. There’s a cool cloth pressing to his forehead, and “ _Cold_.” Ryo snuffles like a child, like he’s five again, cocooned up in a fleece throw, eyes cloudy as he plasters himself to Akira’s lower half in a blatant leech for warmth.

Every sound feels like it’s being filtered underwater, but he hears it well enough when he mumbles an “I got you.” And he wonders if it’s the fever that’s making Akira sound so cautious. Like Ryo’s given something to him tonight, a gift by passing out on his lap.

_I’m here, I got you._

He falls asleep to Akira’s hand stroking his back and dreams vividly of red moons, gold stars and the feel of Akira’s chest beneath his palm, blurring with the hum of an engine.

The last part isn’t a dream, so much as a memory, and it soothes Ryo in a way he can’t even begin to understand.

 

**xiii.**

In the morning, he wakes up to his hair in disarray and his kitchen, even moreso.

He knew it was a mistake to let him stay over.

“Seriously Akira— They’re eggs. How did you manage to fuck up _eggs_. You spin your chopsticks really fast, and pour them into a pan.“

“What, I’m sorry— I don’t cook often! The first time I tried, Miki banned me from the kitchen and regulated me to laundry and grocery duty. She kept it that way our entire relationship— I’m useless in a kitchen.“

That much is evident when he settles down and a heaping pile of....of _something_ is set in-front of him. It explains everything about Akira’s relief when he’d asked what Ryo wanted for breakfast and he’d brushed it off with a noncommittal “I don’t care what I eat.”

He still expected it to be _edible_.

“How long have you known her, anyway.” He pokes a blackened bit of grilled fish, fitting it into his mouth when he deduces it’s salvageable enough not to poison him.

“Since we were kids” Akira hums, seemingly comfortable with the question. “My parents were away on business a lot and I’d stay over at her place while they were gone. We were— we’re really close.”

Evidently not close enough to stay monogamous, but Ryo tucks that thought away with a pinch of rice.

“Mn, you're telling me you grew up with shitty parents and still turned out to be a properly functioning adult?” The wonder in Ryo’s voice is positively dripping with sarcasm.  “I should take notes."

“Please, how functional can I be when A) I can’t cook, and B) I’m sleeping with my boss.” Akira quips over a mouthful of dry, burnt toast. “As far as I’m concerned—I’m in a chick-flick from hell.”

“Explains why I always felt a strong connection to Satan.”

“Pretty sure your employees would agree.”

“Oh, that’s cute. Real cute. Who’s signing your paychecks again?”

“.....”

“Thought so.” Ryo’s smile is angelic as he drains the last of his coffee, wiggling the empty mug at Akira’s scowling face. “Refill, please.”

 

**xiv.**

It’s easy to ruin someone’s life when you don’t have a stake in it. When things aren’t quite real to you. When it’s as detached as a remote control car in a simulated crash. Plug, play, ruin, leave. It’s why the first thing you do when you play the sims is either fuck them or drown them.

 _Noyade_. It’s a french noun. Execution by drowning.

He’s never been much of a swimmer, but that doesn’t stop Akira from insisting they use his pool over the weekend.

“Oh, come on. Fresh air and god forbid— actual sunlight will be good for your pale ass. What’s the point of having a sick apartment if you’re not utilizing half of it?”

“First of all, It’s hardly half, and second of all, the apartment came with it. I just liked the location.” Ryo shrugs, pulling his ankles out of direct sunlight and back into the shade of his poolside umbrella. He's had sunburned feet once in his life, and never plans to repeat it. “Besides, I don’t like swimming.”

Akira’s eyes rove over lily white skin, the lack of surprise completely evident.

”Really? _Couldn’t tell_ .” His tone is as dry as his look when he pushes off the edge of the pool in a lazy backstroke. “Other than ridiculously minimal designers, What _do_ you like? ”

“I know what I _don’t_. Swimming. Skin Cancer. You asking me stupid questions.” And okay, the last one might be stretching the truth. Because he rather liked it, spending time with Akira. Safely tucked under the shade on his lounge chair and fingers a soft clack against his laptop. The gentle splash of water lulling him into a sense of peace he’s never quite felt with someone else.

He could get used to this.

It’s nice.

 

**xv.**

When Ryo’s car is in the shop overnight, Akira offers to take him home after work. It’s a twenty minute detour from his place, and while they both know he can just take a cab over Akira’s inconvenience, he accepts. He knows there’s no chance of... _that_ happening tonight, not when the he has to pick his parents up from the airport in an hour.

They take the highway and he enjoys it more than he expects to. He isn’t moments away from emptying the contents of his stomach and that’s a major upgrade in on itself, but the sunset coats everything in a pleasant haze of red and gold. The warmth of it unlocking something in Ryo’s bones as his arms loop tight around Akira’s chest.

It’s becoming a reoccuring theme as of late, feeling real and... alive. In a way he hasn’t since the world faded into a montone mesh of boring flavors and half stimulating events. He’s spent twenty five uninteresting years as a mind trapped in a body, the disconnect running deeper than the glass wall dividing him and everyone else. And Akira Fudo, with all his good humor and tenacity, had slipped over it to show him how pleasant the sun could feel at 75 miles an hour. That sometimes, there doesn’t have to be a point, or even a taxi.

Sometimes you can just take the ride when it’s offered to you.

There’s a flicker of disappointment when they pull into his driveway. He feels foolish with it— how much he wants to grab Akira and just tell him to keep going. They can get on a highway, make an insane trip to Nara. Feed deer and never come back to this stupid fucking city again. It’s wild, and it’s impossible, and Ryo smothers the fantasy before he can indulge further.

His mouth brushes against the nape of Akira’s neck when he dismounts. It’s a soft little thing, and honestly— Ryo doesn’t even know if it was intentional. But he can see the results very clearly, how it works down his body with a shiver. The way Akira’s eyes flick over to him, questioning and wanting in a way that feels almost...shy.

“Thanks for the ride.” Ryo says simply, before turning on his heel.

He doesn’t get very far though because there’s a tug at his wrist, and when Ryo peers back with furrowed brows, he’s met with Akira’s mouth. It isn’t insistant though— it’s... sweet. Thumb heavy on his pulse as he presses a warm, wind-chapped kiss to his lower lip. It doesn’t ask anything of him— not when he’s pulling away and adjusting himself on the seat of his Suzuki.

Ryo blinks, not sure what to make of it. _Surprised_ , a reluctant part of him admits, once his bike rounds the corner and out of sight. He’s been _surprised_.

They’ve been sleeping together for seven months, but it’s the first time he’s been kissed goodnight.

 

**xvi.**

Things are….different after that. Ryo doesn’t know if it has something to do with the fact that sometimes when they’re in the dim light of the office or going over client notes, Ryo lets Akira kiss him softly and slowly and unhurried. Sometimes it’s only once, but other times the kisses draw longer, until Ryo pushes Akira back and keeps talking about posting dates, and print materials, and tries not to notice that Akira’s holding his hand through it. That he’s thumbing slow, aimless sweeps over the back of his palm. That when they’re working late in his office, sometimes that’s all they do. Pressed up against his side with Akira’s head tipping onto his shoulder, Ryo’s ankles twined with his.

Sometimes, they’re just _together_ , and it’s that word again. Nice.

The only thing that worries him is when he catches Akira staring at him with this particular stare. It isn’t lust, but something much softer—  all lowered lashes and eyes hooded with warmth. His mouth will be a small, sweet curve, and if Ryo glances back, he’ll turn away.

And it unsettles him a little, to think of what Akira might be feeling.

 

**xvii.**

“You’re in a good mood.” Michael comments as they filter out of the conference room. Ryo’s smile is uncharacteristically serene—  agreeable even. “Of course I am. The client loved all of my ideas and ignored everything you said. I love working with them.”

Much to his disappointment, Michael only shrugs.

”I meant in general. You haven’t made a single person cry in the last month.”

“Huh. Didn’t know you were keeping close tabs on me, Michael. You _do_ care.”

“I don’t.” The reply is blunt-- not out of malice, but honesty. “I think you’re starting to, though. HR is thrilled.”

“I still can’t believe they lectured me about the whole Ghelmer thing. That machete was a shoot prop. It wasn’t even that sharp”

_This_ gets a reaction out of him, and he stares at Ryo like he’s unhinged, like he’s truly fucking mental. Because it would be easy to brush off as an unsettling joke if it didn’t actually _happen_. 

__

“Even if it wasn’t, you could’ve easily hurt someone.”

Ryo tilts his head to the side, a fake look of confusion settling over his face.

“Isn’t that the idea?”

 

**xviii.**

“Up, lackey” He taps Akira’s shoulder with a rolled copy of their design selects. “I believe I owe you a meal.”

The producer peels up from a mess of papers, groggy and out of it as he reorients himself. To their great misfortune, they were both here until one in the morning, fucking with close to thirty indesign files rather than each other. It pays off when the video call goes on without a hitch, but the collateral damage is apparent. There isn't an ounce of gas left in their tanks, and that’s why Ryo makes the executive decision to refuel.

“Uh” he blinks, eloquently. “Sure— yeah. Sure.”

They call a cab to avoid crashing in more ways than one. Ryo opens the door for him and has to bite back the reflex to return the small, sleepy smile he gets at the gesture. Akira’s quiet on the way there, exhaustion making him soft and sweet, head lolling onto his shoulder with a yawn. He feels Akira’s hand brush his, and after a moment, gently lace his fingers between the gaps.

He doesn’t pull away.

 

**xix.**

They pick a place in Roppongi with an omakase worth more than half of Akira’s paycheck (weekly, thank the good lord).

“When I said lunch” He stutters after realizing the prices are _per person_. “I didn’t mean— I just meant a regular meal to replace the overtime. I wasn’t even serious.”

Ryo waves off his protest with a noncommittal noise. “Never let it be said that I don’t reward a job well done. Let me spoil you.”

Despite the sign declaring ‘Reservations Only’ They’re seated almost immediately after mentioning Ryo’s name. Rent can’t be cheap on this block, and Akira wonders how a restaurant priced this high can attract enough business to stay open without walk-ins.

Once his mouth envelops a silky piece of otoro though, not only does he understand-- but he moans. Filthily.

“I’ve died.” The declaration is tearful after that single, perfect bite. “You’ve overworked me to death and I’m in heaven. This is heaven and I have no regrets.”

“Please.” The corner of Ryo’s mouth twitches at his theatrics, wondering if he’s been rubbing off on Akira in more ways than one. “Like you’d end up there with your life choices.”

“Hush.” Akira isn’t put out in the slightest, too busy swooning over the hamaguri. “Aren’t you even _remotely_ excited to eat this?”

“At the risk of sounding like a spoiled brat— I’ve been on so many business dinners here, it’s lost a bit of it’s charm on me.”

“Ah yes. That silver spoon does get a bit tiring, doesn’t it?” The sarcasm is _definitely_ rubbing off on him. “I should invite you over for some instant ramen. Really give your taste buds a new and exciting flavor from the middle class.”

“…What, salt?“ Ryo sounds unimpressed, but his eyes are glimmering with an appreciative look aimed right below Akira’s belt. ”You’ve given me a taste of that before, hardly new. Which reminds me, you really need to eat more fruit.”

Akira wastes ¥2000 when he chokes on a piece of salmon nigiri, but Ryo is laughing too hard to care.

 

**xx.**

The next morning, he catches Akira scarfing down a fruit salad for breakfast.

The amount of pineapple in it isn’t lost on him, and Ryo laughs harder.

 

**xxi.**

Talking about it goes something like this:

“You know we cant be together like…. like _that_ , right? It would be completely inappropriate.”

"I-" Akira’s laugh sounds strangled, and Ryo rushes over it like a hit and run.

“I mean, you have a girlfriend, Akira. I hope you’re not thinking of-”

"No, I-"

"Good, I'm glad you agree."

"But, I-"

"I'll see you at eight, okay? Same time, same place?"

 

**xxii.**

“We have to dial into a call with the LA office soon— get up.” Ryo chides, sheets shifting beneath him when he peels up from the bed. Beside him, a lump of tan flesh groans, noncommittally.

“It’s like— 5am in California. Can’t they just relay through their Tokyo office?” Akira gripes with a lazy roll onto his back. He only moves when Ryo swats his leg.

“Yeah, and when have clients made any fucking sense.” He deadpans, before heading toward the ensuite. “I’m going to shower first.”

“What—no!” Akira whines, sitting up with a twinge of pain evident on his face, and now it’s Ryo’s turn to smirk _._ “You always use up all the hot water. Not to mention you’re in there for like, thirty minutes at a time. Sometimes I think you’ve been attacked in there.”

“That only happens in horror movies.”

“Ryo,” Akira sounds positively pitiful, though he smiles in a way that he perceives to be cute when the blonde turns around to look at him. Their gazes linger for a second before his mouth curls in a way that makes Akira perk up.

“I guess there’s room for the both of us in there,” Ryo acquieces, too casual to be anything but premeditated.

 **xxiii**.

It’s easy to ruin someone’s life when you don’t have a stake in it.

Only it’s months later that he realizes he does. Have a stake in this. Have a stake in Akira. Doesn’t know when it shifted into something like _care_. Something like lo--

He stops the thought before he can finish it.

Because this is not that kind of story. He is not that kind of person. And Akira? Akira is a means to an end.

He is release, he is relax, he is unthinking and he is _unwinding_.

He is the bottom of that second glass of wine, the gentle, pleasant abrasion that sands down ryo’s sharp edges and even sharper tongue. He teaches the straight-backed lines of Ryo’s body words like _languid_ , _loosen_ , and _leisurely_.

And in turn, Ryo teaches him not to be a fucking doormat.

It’s a simple exchange of information. Word to word. Thought to thought. Mouth to mouth. Hip to hip.

They are compatible teachers.

No more, No less.

 

**xxiv.**

It isn’t the first time he’s struck with the desire to say something, but he hopes it will be the last.

A hope that’s gone unanswered for the past few months, ever since this feeling burrowed itself into the narrow confines of his chest. It looks like Akira isn’t the only one getting interrupted today though, and before Ryo can get a word out, the tinny opening chords to an old cartoon filter out from beneath Akira’s discarded jeans.

“That’s probably Miki” He mutters against his collarbone, and for better or for worse, that isn’t a surprise either. “I should answer it.”

Because it would be rude, of course. Not picking up your girlfriend’s calls.

 

**xxv.**

He doesn’t feel threatened by Miki Makimura. Why should he? She was Akira’s problem. Akira, the distraction. In fact, he should be thanking her for dealing with all the shit he doesn’t have to as Akira’s not-boyfriend. Free from all the emotional baggage and only reaping the benefits. The relationship was low cost and high reward, an investor’s wet dream. He feels nothing for Miki Makimura, least of all, threatened. Or— and the thought is laughable really— _jealous_.

Akira asks to store a homemade lunch in his mini-fridge one day.

It takes a disproportionate amount of restraint not to fling it against the wall.

 

**xxvi.**

....But there is also the fact that Akira’s smile might be one of the most beautiful things he’s seen and that sometimes he imagines what it would feel like to wake up to it. To have it be a constant, a familiar in his life. To be the cause of it outside those sparse moments of pillowtalk and work banter— when Ryo feels less like metal and more like sand. Pliant. Soft. Soaking up the brilliant warmth of Akira’s sunshine instead of deflecting it right back.

Logically, he knows what this is, he just doesn’t want to name it. Because names give power, and once he knows how to define it, he’ll have to define them.

Akira had asked him once, why he liked the art that he did. The abstract, the minimal— why Ryo, who’s studio was run with meticulously crafted design guides and kerning tighter than his fist, decorates his home with white canvas and sparse, unplanned gashes of color.

Never one for talking, he’s turned to art as a mouthpiece for his moods. As a child he would throw paint against the walls of his room and scream and yell and choose colours to match the fury in his head. As he grew, that habit was transferred onto a canvas, and with the help of paintbrushes, he learned to transform his anger into something beautiful. And the proof of that was on his walls— a diary, out in the open. Ryo is bloodless and methodical because he has cut himself open and bled on these canvases.

It’s not that he can’t explain this to Akira. It’s that he doesn’t want to.

“It’s like sushi” He explains, instead. “It has two ingredients. Fish and Rice. They say an ounce of sauce covers a multitude of sins, and sushi has nothing to hide behind. You eat it and experience the fish's taste, texture and freshness, with nothing concealing it.”

His fingertips drag along the canvas, a recent addition to his walls and softer than the rest. It’s a haze of red and yellow and if he holds his breath, he can still feel the purr of an engine beneath his fingertips.

“It confronts you with a single moment of feeling. There aren’t any figures to distract you, to cover up what it is. It’s pure. Straightforward. Simple without being simple at all.”

He knows what this is. He just doesn’t want to.

“They’re called feelings, sir.”  Jenny informs him before he can realize he just said most of that out loud. “You’re developing them.”

“Oh.” Ryo states, eloquently. Too nauseated at the idea to process any embarrassment at being caught out. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

Jenny is mercifully silent.

 

**xxvii.**

Falling was an accurate way to describe it.

Falling connoted the involuntary, the general lack of free will in a situation. Something that simply creeps up on you. Catches you off guard. You don’t realize what’s happening till it’s too late; you’ve lost your balance and you’re careening headfirst into a mess you didn’t even ask for.

Yes, falling was a perfect word to describe it.

The only direction you can go is down, afterall.

 

**xxviii.**

People used to call Ryo unhinged, but he is confident now more than ever that they were wrong. How could he be insane _before_ , when he was most certifiably going out of his fucking mind _now_ . That’s the only explanation for it. There is simply nothing else to describe his behavior as of late. He understood the carnal craving, that was biology in the way his body sang for Akira. The desire to hold his hand, though. To kiss and hold and _talk_ to him. _That_ was insanity. That was Akira making him insane.

_“I graduated with a degree in psychology— Don’t give me that look. I actually wanted to do counselling for sports after doing track for so long but somehow fell into production. Turns out it’s pretty useful for figuring out what clients want.”_

_What about me?_ He thinks when Akira dozes off beside him, fingertips tracing the corners of his eyes, the thick sweep of his lashes. _Can you tell I want you?_

He thinks he does. Especially when he gets _that look_ . But then reality comes in like a splash of cold water ( _like phonecalls and homemade lunches_ ) when he remembers that no, this is not real. This is borrowed time. That he is on the losing side of the spectrum here, having these feelings. And the thought that he was wrong, that Miki Makimura might have the better end of the bargain sets off something ugly and wrathful in his heart.

He knows that Akira isn't really his, that he might as well be fucking a prostitute. It's crude and vulgar-- obscene even, but when there are so many impersonal caveats to their relationship it's hard to think otherwise. Letting Akira enter him and kiss him, lick his neck, Ryo asks himself whether Akira's only doing this because of his libido, and hates himself for asking the question in the first place.

He begins feeling something he’s never felt after sex— used. It's a feeling that clenches around his throat, all spiked edges and no reprieve and it makes him want to lash out.

This is how he justifies the fight.

The excuse is flimsy, but Ryo’s resolve isn’t.

 

**xxix.**

Akira can’t even give him that, though. Can’t even put up a fight like he used to. When he orders him onto the bed with a rough, commanding shove, he’s complacent like a damn dog. Looking at Ryo with so much affection and patience, Ryo wants to laugh an ugly sound that’s all bite and no humor.

No wonder he didn’t have have a backbone.

The first time Akira fucked him on his back, Ryo scratched hard enough to rip it out.

He wants him to be angry though, he wants him to scream, because he’s goaded Akira with actions dipped in acid and all he gets back is tenderness. He doesn’t know when their sex evolved ( _devolved_?) into something as cloying and gagworthy as lovemaking, but it infuriates him in a way that feels like a live wire- crackling and volatile.

He wants to carve open Akira’s chest, wants to wrap bloody fingers around the warm, beating heart, just so he can see the name that’s inscribed on the deepest parts of him.

He wants it to have three letters instead of four, but more than that-- he wants to not _want_ at all.

So he settles for clawing at Akira’s arms until he feels the skin break under his fingernails-- until Akira hisses but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gathers a wrist in his hand, like he’s cradling the delicate wing of a baby bird and presses a kiss to center of his palm. It’s cotton soft and the look he meets Ryo’s eyes with is too. Like he can _see_ him. Like he can _know_ him and Ryo feels his anger unwillingly splinter at the admission in his eyes.

His feelings, like his thighs, are split because of Akira godamn Fudo, and Ryo is suddenly too exhausted to work through this, to do anything but give in. Just this once. Just this time, he thinks, and pulls him down for a bruising kiss.

His weight is hot-- Constant and solid and _everywhere_ . Akira's gentle hands on his hips and Ryo’s legs _tight a_ round his waist, fingertips making indents in his shoulders and he's moaning into his mouth as they move. Faster and faster and his hips lifting to his, teeth on his collarbone again as a hitched groan escapes his lips, as they cling to each other, as everything begins to unravel and the world comes apart. And there is nothing but red moons and gold stars and their heavy breath and mouths and this _feeling_ and _Akira_ as his back arches _up_ –

_And this isn’t what he wanted, he wanted rough and hard, and angry, and sharp edges but this—_

This is ecstasy. He can make out his face as he says it – _Akira, Akira, Akira_ – eyes half-lidded, mouth open and his chest heaving as he chokes on the feeling that wells up inside him. _I love this._ Hears his own name -- _Ryo_ \-- in his ear, coming on the end of a sigh and a heavy shudder. A cup filled to the brim, spilling over.

_I love this._

They don't bother to untangle when it’s over. They stitch themselves together, knees stuck between thighs, fingers in sweaty hair, and Akira's head resting against his chest. Breathing long and even. Muscles like liquid. Sedated.

_I love —_

 

**_xxx._ **

“I love you”

He isn’t surprised when Akira says it first. He knows it was inevitable. Has probably known since _sick days_ and _pool days_ and _sushi days_ , and days when you’re meant to take a taxi but don’t. Maybe from the first time, even, when he walked in with his heart pinned to the sleeve of that shitty black button down. _Fuck._

Ryo isn’t surprised but that doesn’t stop his heart from going off like a flashbang in his chest. And it’s happiness at first, bright and consuming and his eyes go round and _liquid_ in a way he didn’t know he was capable of.

But that’s only for a split second, because a moment later, it all goes terrifyingly blank. Seizing like a frightened animal, like a rabbit thump in his chest, like white static in his ears, like being thrown off balance with nothing to grab onto. _Falling_.

He’s pushing Akira off before he can think. Pulling the sheets around himself like a cocoon, like a barrier, like the walls he’s learned to build up everytime someone with a caveat comes into his life.

“You love me?” He spits, and Akira reels back at the venom in his voice. Because he’s never heard Ryo this... malicious. This isn’t the petty, pedantic bullshit they bicker about— This is something drawn up from the depths of his spite. “You don’t even _know_ me.”

Wrong choice of words, or perhaps right, because there’s no other word to describe the look on Akira’s face than wounded, and that’s the goal, isn’t it? That was always the goal.

“If I don’t, that’s because you won’t let me!” The ensuring laugh is frustrated, incredulous, but mostly, desperately, sad. “Fuck, I’ve been trying for months, but you won’t _let me_.”

 _I have_ , he feels the words lodge in his throat like a sob, like a scream. _I’ve been showing you, but I’m afraid that this is it. This is all I am. And what if you keep digging for something more and can’t find anything? What then? What if this is just who I am and it—_

 _It isn’t enough. It’s_ **_never_ ** _enough._

And that thought, he realizes with a jolt of shame, is what makes his heart hurt so much. Because Akira Fudo isn’t something he deserves. He should have someone who’s mouth knows how to form those three important words, and not the acerbic, difficult blonde who’s entire vocabulary consists of _fuck you_ , _fuck me_ , and _fuck this_. He deserves Miki Makimura and her lunch dates and her funcional family that’s helped build Akira up, not tear him down.

He deserves so much more than Ryo can give him, and even if it’s at the tip of his tongue and even if he wants to say it— ‘ _I do. I do too_.’

It comes out like this:

_“Get out.”_

 

**xxxi.**

For once, Akira listens.

For once, Ryo wishes he didn’t.


	2. Cedere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (APOLOGIES FOR ANYONE WHO GOT A DOUBLE NOTIF ON THIS LOL. I posted at 3am with a few mistakes, and....hit delete chapter instead of edit this morning to fix them OTL) Again, please note that the content was written without the knowledge of Michael canon and not some twincest kink. I've updated the tags to reflect this, but please avoid reading if it makes you uncomfortable! Unfortunately, while it’s not super essential to the plot, it does effect events in the story so I can't cut it out. if you still want to read the fic anyway, but avoid the bits of Michael / Ryo— please skip section xii. 

**Cedere**

_Latin; To yield._

 

**xvii.**

Ryo is doing well.

His productivity has skyrocketed now that he no longer has... distractions. He’s finally gotten around to trimming his hair— sides shaved into an undercut that makes him feel streamlined and put-together. He spends eight thousand euros on a Maison Margiela coat that feels more like armor than outerwear, and with two short, impersonal emails— Akira is reassigned back to Zen’s department the Monday following their incident™.

Forget the liquor, the late nights when his chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. Forget that he’s been staying later at work _(running from a problem, running into an entirely new one)_. Forget all of that because that’s how Ryo was functioning before anyway. He can force the hands back on a wind up clock. It isn’t built to tick that way— time is supposed to flow forward, not back. But Ryo will _force_ it back even if he has to bloody his fingers in the process.

Ryo is doing well.

He’s always been good at pretending he never wanted what he couldn’t have.

**xvi.**

It’s only to Jenny he confides, ever silent as he polishes off his fifth glass of cabernet sauvignon, that no. He is not doing very well at all.

“I seem to have—” He pauses, mouth screwing in grim resignation. “Miscalculated.”

He is thankful when Jenny does nothing but sweep the upended liquor bottles into the trash. Just because his personal life— god when did he start _having_ a personal life— was a wreck, didn’t mean his office had to be.

It was a supposed to be a clean break. A surgical incision that he’s performed countless times before. Cut and cauterize. Ryo might spend eight thousand euros on a coat, but he is nothing if not economic. He was born with an innate sense of fairness and without fail— knew exactly how much he had to give up to get what he wanted. How many pounds of flesh were needed to balance that scale.

Daddy doesn’t like you? Work until he does. Daddy dies? Work until you do, too.

Nothing comes from nothing, and satisfaction has a price that Ryo has carefully weighed and paid for.

The explanation is grim, but it’s not like he’s been miserable all his life, necessarily. It’s just that happiness has always felt like victory to him. It felt like winning another client, shelves of gold awards, and being able to spoil himself with expensive things. It felt like the ability to say “I’m right”— his word made fact for others to follow, unequivocally. It has never felt like another person.

He's always known his time with Akira was a luxury.

But it’s the first time he’s underestimated the cost.

**xv.**

Ryo has a certain reputation at work. It’s not that he’s trying to be an asshole, he just is. He says things that cut and tear, rend and ruin, but generally speaking, he knows how to be professional. He demands excellence because he gives excellence.

“How much do I pay you?” He begins conversationally, in the middle of review.

The animator struggles, not only because it’s a wildly inappropriate question, but also because hieroglyphics were easier to read than Ryo Asuka. After a beat of silence, he turns to the only other person in the room, brow quirking expectantly at Michael who’s been acting as his producer since Akira’s mysterious relocation back to the fourth floor.

“It’s a decent rate, isn’t it?”

“It’s— standard.” Michael looks increasingly alarmed. “What are you getting at?”

“Funny, because this work isn’t. When I’m paying you a decent rate, I expect decent work. If I wanted shit, I’d pay you shit. Should I adjust your paycheck to demonstrate? You might even be able to afford ramen with what you just handed in.”

“Ryo.” Michael snaps, horrified. “That’s enough.”

“It really is, isn’t it.” Ryo’s lips thin into a harsh line as he flicks his stylus toward the doorway. “Hand your shot over to Miko. At least she can do her job right. Now get out.”

**xiv.**

“Christ, what is wrong with you lately? She was just a junior.” Michael snaps, irritated and, dare he say _concerned_ when he re-enters his office. Presumably after talking the animator down from the bridge Ryo suggested she leap off of.

"It's nothing." The reply is curt, face impassive as always.

“Nothing?” The director scoffs, his usual exasperation catching a note of genuine anger. “That was fucked up, even by your standards.”

But he's telling the truth. Ryo has _always_ been telling the truth. Even when he’s gripping his mouse so hard he can hear it creak.

What's wrong?

 _He's_ wrong and—

"It's nothing."

He repeats again to himself at home, sucking air through his teeth as he lights another joint. Quieter this time, smoke curling over his cheekbones, kissing the tip of his nose.

It's always nothing.

Until it became _something_ and Ryo had no idea what to do with it.

**xiii.**

It’s only been a week _(of ignoring his calls, of instructing Jenny that no, Mr. Asuka isn’t available at the moment, kindly fuck_ ** _off_** _)_ when he finally bumps into them. He knew it had to happen eventually. He just didn’t expect it to be so soon. Ryo strolls into the elevator, intent on having something other than cigarettes for lunch, only to look up and find eyes like wide chips of amber— startled.

And if this were eight months ago, there would’ve been a malicious sense of glee at the sight of him. At the visual affirmation that Ryo isn't the only one hurting in this equation. But Akira’s surprise highlights the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the general air of misery rolling off his shoulders, and it makes Ryo feel—

It just makes him _feel,_ in general.

Not that it shows, of course. Ryo’s expression is unsettlingly blank, even when it’s partially hidden by his phone in a refusal to acknowledge him. It's a force of habit, an automatic reaction when something tightens his throat, twists his insides into ugly, uncomfortable knots. If there’s one thing a lifetime of shitty cards teaches you, it’s the importance of developing a damn good poker face.

He needs one when he hears Akira murmur to the girl beside him, identifying her as none other than Miki Makimura.

She’s... pretty, Ryo thinks, with a sidelong glance. Dark hair fastened into a headband and pillow soft curves at the waist. She’s pretty and looks kind, and Ryo wants nothing more than to snap her neck off her narrow little shoulders. A neck that Akira’s probably kissed and nuzzled into, starting from collar to ear, just like he’d done to Ryo, three months ago, in this very spot.

Akira has good taste.

He has roughly 8 seconds to think this before the elevator stops on the 42nd floor, and to his horror, she steps out without him.

“Have a good lunch.” She chirps in a voice like spun sugar, back-lit by the frantic shuffle of the sample sale behind her. He wonders if Miki would sound so sweet if she knew how often this silent stranger had his tongue down her boyfriend’s throat, but evidently he’d never find out.

The silver jaws of the elevator shut behind her, and then there were two.

Ryo gives it five seconds.

Akira breaks in three.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts after a moment of silence, a reservoir showing it’s first, splintering cracks. “Ryo, I’m sorry.”

The word feels like an icepick to the heart. Hammered in with such stunning efficiency, Ryo wonders if Akira’s been taking notes.

 _Sorry._ The urge to laugh simmers at the back of his throat. _Sorry. Of course._

“Don’t be” He finally manages, and he hates how strained it sounds. Like he’s been nicked somewhere vital. “I obviously enjoyed myself.”

He can see the way Akira’s face crumples in alarm.

“That’s not what I meant, I—”

And yeah, he _knows_ that. Deep down, he _knows_ that isn’t what Akira meant. But that doesn’t change a damn thing— least of all how he felt in that splintering second. Like rain on a sunny day, or a crack in a pristine piece of glass. A _mistake_ , he thinks. Something that ruins beautiful things.

“I don’t care.” He cuts through breezily, and maybe God has a little mercy left in him, because the elevator opens up to the lobby in a gaping maw of sunlight, ready to swallow him whole. “I really don’t.”

Ryo takes the stairs, after that.

**xii.**

Like all things in his life, he doesn’t mean for it to happen.

Or maybe he does. The idea that his life is just a string of subconscious, self-sabotaging events is becoming more and more plausible. At least, that seems to be the theme on nights when Jenny isn’t there, but Michael is.

“I don’t care how over-budget we are.“ He snaps, thumbing through the latest round of notes. “Just get Miko back on Monday. If they want a posting, we’ll give it to them.”

“I booked her already, relax.” Michael sighs, and if he wasn’t so good at his goddamn job, Ryo would’ve fired him years ago. “Didn’t your father teach you how to say please?”

“No, he was too busy comparing me to you.” _and being liberal with his backhand at the results._ Ryo keeps that part to himself, but strongly considers giving Michael a personal demonstration. “The only please I ever learned was _‘wow dad, please stop, this is the third time I’ve considered killing myself this month’_ but I have a feeling that just encouraged him to try harder.”

“You mean he tried to kill you?” Michael snorts over the rim of his wine glass, and because he can’t open his mouth without pissing Ryo off: ”Incredible.”

“Yeah, you always did get along.”

“It was a joke. For once in your miserable life, have you ever considered _not_ being so bitter?” Ryo’s eyes narrow dangerously and taking a page from his own book, Michael cuts him off. “Don’t start. Your asshole dad liked me, big fucking deal. You’re the one who turned it into this weird rivalry. I just lived my life, and I’m sorry if he… stacked it against you or whatever. But how is that my fault?”

“If I recall correctly, it was a lot of you showing off.”

“And did I ever badmouth you? No. That’s just you, taking his commentary on _my_ life personally.” His eyes roll skyward as he knocks back the remainder of his glass to make room for another. “Which is fucking weird considering the vast majority of the time, you wouldn’t know _‘personal’_ if it bit you in the ass.”

“What.” Ryo scoffs. “and you do?”

“Considering I’m a normal, functioning adult, yeah. I’m pretty sure I know how to separate my personal life from my job.”

It’s enough to quiet him when Michael stands up for a refill, mulling over the comment with consideration he rarely gives his director. It’s grudging to admit he might have a point. The hypocrisy in his hyper-fixation over Akira Fudo. Why does it have to mean anything? This year long situation he’s blown hot air into— maybe he’s only giving it a meaning because he has no other point of reference in this fucked up dynamic.

And if Akira has two, if he has someone else he can hold Ryo up to— to contemplate between like two ripe pieces of fruit, why shouldn’t he?

Sure, he doesn’t like Michael. And Michael sure as fuck doesn’t like him. But hatred, Ryo thinks as he watches the bob of his throat and experiences a splintering sense of deja vu. _(of tan skin and amber eyes repeating the motion. A memory that pushes at his chest like whiskey and the faint murmur of Miki Makimura’s name.)_

Hatred can have it’s own appeal.

“Care to prove it?” Ryo’s eyes are sharp as he sets his fourth glass aside, full of intent. Michael’s surprise doesn’t go unnoticed, steady stream of wine interrupted by the slight jerk of his hand.

“...Prove what?” He arches an eyebrow, the reaction corked away with the bottle he slides back onto the shelving.

“I’m not entertaining the idea that someone I pay to manage my company is that dense.”

“I’m not.” Michael replies simply when he returns to the desk, his tone shifting into something amused— _insouciant_ , even. “I just want to hear you say it.”

Only Ryo isn’t interested in talking. Talking is how he got himself into this mess. Talking, sharing, opening his mouth when he should’ve focused on opening his legs. He’s firmly intent on not making the same mistake twice when he drags Michael down by the collar.

From the start he tastes like a bad idea mixed with vintage wine. But Ryo’s been exceptionally good at having bad ideas as of late, and even if he knows this is leading to nowhere pleasant, he feels compelled to see it through.

Still, he can’t quell the surprise at how... compliant Michael’s response is when his lips part under the slip of his tongue. An odd sense of irritation brims below the surface, inexplicably bitter at the fact that he isn’t pushed away. That the decision isn’t made for him when he’s the one to break away first with narrowed eyes and a breathless huff.

“What, no HR lecture?”

Michael’s eyes are careful and considering when they flick over the mess they’ve made, from the raided mini-fridge, to the vibrant, cherry-red stain of Ryo’s mouth. There’s a decisive pause.

“Like that’s ever stopped you.”

Before diving back in.

Sex with Michael is….different. Familiarity lingers at the tip of his tongue, but it’s not quite the word he’s looking for when he realizes the uncanny sensation of looking into a mirror and having every action matched in turn. Where Akira is passion, bright and burning with easy excitement— Michael is cool detachment. Practiced, confident ease. His fingers pick apart the buttons of his slacks in neat, unhurried motions and they prepare him with the same unembellished care. He slides into Ryo with a snap of his hips, mouth smoothing over his jawline in an impersonal staccato of kisses that leave him panting and vaguely unsatisfied.

The entire act feels as economic as the business he conducts between these very walls, and Ryo thinks that, despite all the arguments, this must be what it feels like to fuck himself non-metaphorically for once.

If there is one thing he has in common with Akira though, it’s that he is an attentive lover. This means two unfortunate things. One, Ryo can’t even use this against him in their never-ending volley of insults. And two, he doesn’t notice the door creak open behind him, the earlier knocks masked by the sound of skin on skin and Ryo’s breath in his ear.

Ryo does, though.

Ryo notices, eyes piercing over one bare shoulder, the edges of Michael’s cream white shirt slipping off exposed skin.

He can see it with remarkable clarity, the universe that collapses in Akira’s eyes when he walks through that door. A thousand unspoken, unacknowledged wishes, crushed under the weight of thoughtless words and the silence stretched between them. The possibility that they could be salvaged cracking away with his voice, with his heart, lips parted around a silent _‘oh.’_

Dumbstruck is one way to describe Akira’s expression. Heartbreak is another.

Which is a little hypocritical considering the past year. It was one thing to fuck someone, but seriously? Akira didn’t even have the luxury of saying ‘it didn’t mean anything’ to the girl waiting back home.

And because Ryo is nothing if not fair, he thinks with grim satisfaction:

_“This one’s for you, Miki Makimura.”_

Before tipping his head back in a moan.

**xi.**

He never does things by halves, and if he’s going to break a heart, he might as well go all the way in. If this is what it takes to shatter the weird illusion that Akira Fudo has about him— that he can love someone without tearing them apart, he is sorely mistaken.

Akira stops coming by the office, after that.

A niggling part of him tries to not be disappointed, but he figures after the second month of mutually ignoring each other that they’re— that whatever this is, is finally, _finally_ over. He tells himself that he is satisfied with the conclusion. That true to his philosophy, every dog can be brought to heel. And if the only way Akira had learned was on his knees with a choke collar— then so be it. Ryo has no qualms with being an unforgiving teacher when the lesson is as unforgiving as love.

He tries to hate him for a while, and for a while it works. The anger comes as easily as the numbness, the slow stream of alcohol and smoke, bleeding into his system day by day by day. The equation is simple, the more he drinks, the less he feels— ergo, if he can’t reach inner peace by working fifteen hour days, he’ll get fucked up until he can.

He can still function at work, so it’s not like he cares.

Thinking back on it now, he hasn’t since Akira left, anyway.

 

**x.**

On Saturday he unfolds a tarp by his poolside, and with the methodical grace of a serial killer, he begins to paint.

The act feels more like murder than art. Angry black gashes that bubble like molten lava en gouache. Smears of gold blood and bone, and mouths with far too many teeth. He paints to match the cacophony of sounds that hum beneath his skin, a bloodletting that spills the ugliest parts of himself out in the open. He paints until the sun begins to set and his canvas is full of split moons and red oceans.

And when Ryo’s veins are emptied of this feeling and he’s surrounded by an acrylic massacre, he lies back on the hard cement. He stares at an unforgiving expanse of stars and ignores the colors in his head and the pain in his chest. He thinks about flying, about sprouting wings, and about Akira having them too. He thinks of how it would feel to grip them in an iron fist and yank him out of the sky— to clip them off and lock him away. A flightless bird in the glass cage of his apartment.

He thinks if he did that, Akira would never be able to leave him alone like this, ever again.

It’s a comforting thought, and Ryo falls asleep to the smell of chlorine lapping against tile, alone.

**ix.**

Apparently, sleeping outside isn’t a great idea in late autumn. He spends the rest of the weekend sick. There is no one to cling to this time. No fingers carding back his hair as he shakes and shivers and coughs. There is only the insufferable weight of his own thoughts and a thick down blanket.

A blanket can be used for many things, Ryo thinks. It keeps you warm and lets you pretend the sun isn’t out- that there isn’t another day of disappointment waiting for you around every corner. You can make believe that it’s a tent or a fort or a shield to hide from your father when he comes in with angry words and an even angrier fist. It can make you invisible or a superhero or someone who is _normal_ Ryo- why can’t you just be _normal_ for once.

Sometimes, it can even be warm enough to feel like the person who walked out the door, left your heart to mingle with the plaster cracks in the walls. So that maybe, maybe you can hear his heartbeat under your palms, his breath mingle with yours and I love you, I love you, please stay.

But at the end of the day a blanket is just a blanket.

It’s a substitute for warmth.

It isn’t him.

**viii.**

The thing that pisses Ryo off the most though, is that the entire encounter with Michael made him feel nothing. Relief, regret— there is only the feeling of stifling stagnation. 

He has never encountered this feeling before. He is used to quantifying his problems in a checklist, steady and solvable. The idea that he isn’t able to do a goddamn thing to get rid of it infuriates him beyond words. He’s tried drinking. He’s tried drugs. He’s tried sex. He’s tried everything in the book to deal with a breakup, when the shitty part is, he can’t even _call_ this a breakup. He can’t even call this rebound sex, when he isn’t _rebounding_ from anything.

You had to have been in a relationship to have any of those things. And as Ryo had adamantly shown Akira, they had been in no such thing.

The problem is though, even Ryo couldn’t deny that there had been routines between them. Habits.

Ghosts of Akira, in his pool— Afterimages pressed into his sheets where he would unknit Ryo’s spine from the cage of his bones. For breakfast, Ryo picks apart a fish, strips the skin from it’s perfectly grilled flesh, and tries not to scream when his tongue rebels at the fact that it’s properly cooked. Like it’s unfamiliar to have something done right.

It doesn’t stop there, either. The morning after a petty argument with Michael, he buys him a can of coffee on the way to work. Michael looks at him like he’s grown a second head and Ryo feels the sudden, violent urge to bludgeon him unconscious with it.

He keeps ordering for two, instead of one.

Little things, adding up like raindrops. You can’t drown in a drizzle, but you can in a hurricane. And Ryo has always hated swimming.

So he is left sinking in this limbo, where things don’t have names and where people linger behind, even after they’ve already left.

**vii.**

**Drafts (1)**

Akira,

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

**Ryo Asuka**

Executive Creative Director

_**Your message has been discarded.** _

* * *

 

**Drafts (1)**

Akira,

No, but really, fuck you.

My therapist used to tell me to write these letters instead of lashing out when I felt overwhelmed. They were supposed to help me process my emotions in a healthy, constructive way I could review. Only it’s the opposite, I don’t feel over-anything. overwhelmed, overburdened, overclocked, over you.

The only thing I feel lately, is tired.

Fuck, I’m so tired.

I’m tired of expecting you here. I’m tired of walking into my office and feeling like there’s something missing. I’m tired of trying to find it in someone else, and I’m tired of feeling angry all the time.

I used to like it, you know. Being angry. It felt good. It felt so, _so_ good, because there was _something_ filling the spaces I’ve had to carve out of myself. Like eating metal on an empty stomach. Drinking saltwater on a shipwreck. But then you had to fuck everything up ( _like you always do_ ) and remind me how it felt to... not feel that way.

And then you left.

And now I’m so tired of being alone.

Because that crater inside my chest is shaped like you now, and I’m filling it with everything that used to work. Only it isn’t working anymore, and I’m terrified, because eventually this anger will burn out and all I’m going to be left with is hurt.

And I can’t deal with that right now. I really can’t.

So, in conclusion, I hate you.

Everything about you, actually— from that stupid black shirt (and _fuck_ you, it’s not the same as having backup copies of clothing exclusively sold in _France_ ) to that hideous, fucked-up eyeliner. Your complete lack of self-awareness. You can’t even cook. You're crazy. You drive _me_ crazy. But I'm crazy about you and I think about you all the time and I _miss_ you, goddammit.

I miss you so much I could choke on it.

**Ryo Asuka**

Executive Creative Director

_**Your message has been discarded.** _

* * *

**Drafts (1)**

Akira,

Yes, I can do dailies with Zen at 2pm or 4pm. Send me a calendar invite with his choice. Thanks.

**Ryo Asuka**

Executive Creative Director

_**Your message has been sent.** _

**vi.**

“What happened to not keeping this personal?” Ryo mutters when he finds himself situated at a bar with none other than, god, fuck. Michael.

“Oh, don’t worry.” He snorts, tipping back his whiskey neat. A boring drink to match a boring fuck. “I'm game for sticking my dick in crazy, but _really_ not interested in having a relationship with it. I’m just here to make sure you don’t kill yourself before I find a new Creative Director.”

“...Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it— Oh, hey. Isn't that the producer you had on the Devilman job?"

And because his life is one cosmic joke after another— yes. It is. He’s traded in his black button down for an equally unexciting tee, and— Ryo has to squint toward the entrance— a silver earring. That’s new.

“Shit.” He mutters under his breath, flipping down his aviators as if that would make him more inconspicuous _indoors_. “Didn’t think he could even _afford_ this bar.”

And either his tone gives it away or Michael is far more intuitive than he lets on, because after a pregnant pause, the director just _laughs_.

“You and _him_?”

Ryo’s eyes slip shut in resignation, too drunk to put effort in a denial when Michael whistles low and sympathetic. And _‘no, please._ ’ He thinks. Pity is the last thing he needs from this asshole, but there it is. Ryo is grasping at new lows. Fucking him was less painful than enduring this.

“ _Yikes_. I had a feeling something was up, but I had no idea you were _this_ self-destructive.”

“If I get one ‘HR’ comment from you, this bottle is the next thing I’m fitting up your ass. Don’t test me.”

“Duly noted. I’ll call you a cab.”

 

**v.**

Salvation comes in the form of Sony.

Michael sends him the email at 2am, a warning of how intense this project will be, and all Ryo can think is _yes, thank you, yes._ This is exactly what he needs. The follow-up declaring that they’ll both be flying out to California to seal the deal is only a bonus. A change of scenery, a little perspective from the cramped streets of Tokyo will do him good. Add in the promise of a crushing work schedule and Ryo thinks this just might be enough to swallow him whole. He will cannibalize himself into a festering snakepit of stress and resentment and spit out a multi-million dollar idea.

It’s what he does best.

**iv.**

Ryo lands in Los Angeles a week later. The city of angels is warm and sunny, and it spites his skin with the kind of hatred that turns his shoulders an angry pink. Perhaps he really is Satan when all he can do in the light is burn.

Luckily, the coat he purchased with a truly fuck-you level of inheritance prevents that during his ride to the hotel.

Michael had been surprisingly unobtrusive throughout the process. Not only had he arrived on an earlier flight _(...and thankfully so. If Ryo had to spend ten hours in a cramped plane with that prick, he isn’t sure he’d be leaving it in one piece)_ he also had enough decency to get them separate rooms. Why they had to be beside each other though, is beyond him. He’s close enough to hear the shower in the next room because yes, Michael is arrogant enough to be primping at 4pm.

**Ryo**

  * got a few errands to run. i’ll meet you at the restaurant?



He must be insane enough to text in the shower because less than a minute later, his phone pings a response.

**Michael**

  * That’s fine. We’re meeting them at 7pm, 1147 3rd St, Santa Monica, CA 90403. The reservation is under my name.



**Ryo**

  * looks like the restaurant is too, you fucking narcissist.



**Michael**

  * ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯



**iii.**

Ryo is sharp, glittering, and dressed to kill. He’s ready to actually, considering Michael hasn’t shown up by the time Sony’s representatives arrive.

“Kaim. So good to see you.” His smile is sufficiently apologetic when he mentions the absence. “I’m sorry my partner hasn’t made his way over yet. Must be held up in traffic.”

He waves the excuse off with a laugh, sliding into the seat across Ryo. “Actually, I think it was Sirene’s fault for holding him up. We caught him outside and she can be a bit of a chatterbox.”

“Ah.” The corner of his mouth twitches because really, a text explaining that would’ve been nice. “Michael can be like that too. Glad to see they’re getting along then.”

Kaim pauses, and before Ryo can feel the edges of dread creep in at the confusion in his look— a leggy, platinum blonde is making her way toward them.

“Michael?” Kaim questions after a moment of hesitation, the final nail in the coffin. “Perhaps I heard it wrong, he introduced himself as...”

The words fade off like static in his ears- glitched, white noise where a voice would be if Ryo hadn’t entered the early stages of a mental breakdown. The ensuring laugh wavers between hopeless disbelief and hysteria, because of _course_ this would happen.

He’s going to kill someone. Maybe Michael. Probably himself. But definitely, _definitely_ the man trailing behind Sirene. Tall, dark, handsome, and shaped like the hole that’s been occupying Ryo’s chest for the past three months.

“—Akira Fudo.”

 

**ii.**

 Ryo doesn’t believe in god-given miracles, but the fact that he holds it together during that meeting is a testament that he can make them happen. He did not get on a ten hour flight to fuck up a very important meeting™ all because of a little glitch like Akira godamn Fudo.

_(“Michael told me I’d be meeting Miko.” He hisses when Ryo’s heel digs into his foot beneath the table, a silent demand for an explanation. “He said she was leading this job, not you. I’m just as confused as you are.”)_

When they’re alone in a cab though, dinner finished with polite smiles after that incredibly awkward start, it’s a different story. He punches in Michael’s number with a violence he’s only written emails with.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull.” The accusation is point blank, without infliction.

“Oh, sorry. Did I forget to mention I couldn’t make my flight?” The excuse is delivered with such an air of nonchalance, it’s clear Michael never planned to get on that plane in the first place. “Luckily I was able to find you a suitable replacement?”

Ryo’s response is crackling silence, a visible transition from from flesh to ice.

“So this _was_ your idea” His expression is carved from marble as he reaches into his wallet. The cab is a good fifteen minutes away from the hotel, but he’s already tossing a twenty in general direction of the driver. It’s clear that he’s been tipped over the edge and Ryo, who’s barely been clutching to the frayed edges of his sanity, is just _done_.

“I knew it. I knew you would pull something like this. Let me out.”

“Wait.” Akira interjects like he’s dealing with a skittish animal, and the assessment isn’t too far off when he is frighteningly close to decking him in the face. “Ryo, wait. I think— I think he was just trying to help—”

“Oh, was he now? How touching. Like I fucking give a fuck— _I said, Let me_ ** _out_** _!_ ” And he does it. He yanks the door of a moving car open and leaps out when it screeches to a halt. Leaving Akira to yelp and scramble after him like a dog.

“Fuck off! All of you can fuck right off!” He’s snarling at this point, screaming even, when the producer tries to get in front of him. Not that it matters in this neighborhood. Everyone is screaming at everyone, here.

“Get out of my way Fudo.” He warns viciously, boots scraping against sidewalk as he attempts to shove past him. “ Get out of my way or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” Akira refuses to give an inch, arms crossing with a stupidly determined look. “Yell at me? Threaten to fire me? There’s nothing you can say to scare me when I’ve already heard the worst of it anyway. So go ahead, get angry. It’s not going to make me disappear.”

“No, but I’m sure a restraining order will.”

“Christ, will you just let me _talk_ to you!”

“There’s nothing for us to talk about!”

“Oh, there’s _plenty_ for us to talk about. We can start with your god complex and move right onto the part where you’re _completely fucking insane_!”

“I’m insane? You’re the one showing up everywhere, you—”

“Do I need to spell it out for you? Here, let me translate in a language you can understand. Fuck you, Ryo. Fuck your _piss_ poor attitude, fuck you treating other people like _garbage_ , oh, and while we’re at it— fuck that stupid fucking coat.”

Ryo’s mouth snaps shut. Partially because this coat was worth a fifth of Akira’s annual income, but mostly because his mind has drawn a frustrating blank at the fire he just coaxed out of him.

“You’re out of your mind.” He concludes flatly. “I’m leaving.” And he can feel it. He can feel Akira’s resolve break under the way his tone drops into something terrifyingly blank. And he can sense the finality behind it, how he will turn away and this will be it. Akira steps aside, even if his face looks like he’s been sliced open from the inside out.

“Alright. Go ahead. Run away, coward.”

And it says something about Ryo, how this statement is the one that gives him pause.

“...Me.” The word seethes out slow and dangerous. He rounds back, knowing full well he's being baited, but the damage is done. “You really— You really have the balls to call _me_ a coward. That’s fucking rich coming from the guy with a goddamn girlfriend.”

“Had. Past tense.” He grits out, and Ryo laughs an ugly, mocking sound.

“Oh, let me guess. She just found out. Too bad you were already fucking me for close to a year though, so if you’re looking for some moral high ground— eat my fucking ass.”

“We slept together once before I told her! _Once_ , you fucking psycho. I tried to tell _you_ , but your head was so far up your own ass you wouldn’t listen.”

“You’re a shitty liar, she called you the entire time.”

“For a plethora of reasons, like moving shit out of my apartment after we broke up two days later. She’s one of my best friends, you crazy fuck. Unlike you, I don’t cut people I care about out of my life!”

He remembers Akira crying in the bathroom and clamps down on the thought with a hot flush of anger. No. Too easy.

“Yeah? Then why didn’t you just tell me. You’ve interrupted me plenty of times before—”

“And have you run away? You’d cower like a fucking rabbit if you had to deal with me without an escape hatch. If there was any chance of us becoming more than.... whatever we were. I tried to tell you in the elevator, and look what happened. I tried to tell you again, and for fuck’s sake, you slept with _Michael_.”

“You do **_not_** get to be pissy about that.” He snarls, and Akira’s mouth snaps shut in a scowl. Ryo: 1, Akira: 0. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No I completely understand. Either you’re a really, _really_ sick fuck— which— honestly, I wouldn’t put a kink for homewrecking past you. Or you despise the idea of being vulnerable. Of actually having the option to be with someone. For such a complex person, you’re frighteningly simple to read.”

Ryo’s second mistake of the night (or the past year, really) was underestimating Akira. He might have the intellectual intelligence of a corporate peon, but he has the emotional intelligence of—

Of someone Ryo can’t deal with at the moment.

Fucking psychology degree.

There's a tense beat of silence before his scowl gives way to something vulnerable. Exposed. 

“Why.” He asks simply— the core of it all pried open for that single, sundering question. “Why _me_?”

“...Stockholm Syndrome?” Akira deadpans, and gets a kick to the shin. “Ow, Jesus— I don’t fucking know!”

Ryo gives him a withering look.

“I don’t, trust me. If love made sense, you are the last person in the world that I’d chose. You’re the most infuriating one I’ve met. Everything’s a fight with you.”

“It’s not, stop exaggerating.”

“Stop proving my point.”

“I wasn’t aware you had one past insulting me?”

Akira throws his hands up, incredulously.

“My point is, there isn’t a point! I love you and I’m sure there’s some convoluted, fucked up reason why you think I shouldn’t, but I’m sick of you pushing me away because you keep projecting it onto me.”

Somehow, it's easier to swallow his weight in wine than it is to swallow the absurdity of that idea. But he has no choice when Akira reaches for him, fingers circling his wrist in a loose ring, thumb to pulse, roping him in with the gravity of something undeniable. 

“I want you.” Akira admits softly. Honestly. “I want to be with you, and I think—” He licks his lips, eyes searching, and inches closer. “I think you want to be with me, too.”

Ryo opens his mouth—to say something, to do damage control. What comes out is a shaky exhale.

He feels trapped, teetering back and forth over this precipice. Backed off the edge of a cliff with fire licking at his heels and the unfathomable depth of the ocean below him. And it's tempting to stand still, feet planted to the same spot they've always been in, because at least the heat is familiar. Something he's lived with for years on end. Something he's resigned himself to burn up in, without a trace. Sure, there have been people who called out to him with their life rafts. beckoning him to jump into the water below. to leap. to fall.

But all Ryo can think, is:  _what if I drown?_

They all stop trying, eventually. But Akira— Akira is here. He is still _here_ , and wonder of wonders:

_I want you._

And even if his knees are shaking, even if he's peering over the crumbling edges of rock and earth with a fear he hasn't felt since he was a boy under a blanket, he sees that outstretched hand and makes a choice. to leap. to fall. 

“Yes.” It breaks free, finally. The word clawing at his throat with the effort of being dragged up from somewhere sharp and painful. “I do. I want you. I want you so much I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself.”

For a moment they just stare at eachother, holding the admission between them like something quiet and sacred. And Ryo has to marvel at what he's created in Akira's eyes, the lightness and warmth reflected in the aching bloom beneath his ribcage. Something he thought had long since been buried, brought back to life with the three letters he pushes against his mouth. _I love this._ He thinks, and finally— _finally_ , like a breath released into the sparse space between teeth and tongue:

_"I love you."_

Akira's palms are warm against his jaw when they break apart, kiss-swollen mouth curling into a smile at the long-overdue confession.

And it’s only in the appreciative silence that they catch the soft pop from Ryo’s phone, still clutched in hand— the crackling sizzle of what is _unmistakably_ a can of lemon-pomelo la croix.

“That was all very touching.” Michael’s voice drawls out from the speaker, evidently _not_ touched. “But consider hanging up before making a spectacle of yourself. You’re lucky I didn’t broadcast this entire call to the company intercom with how you’ve been acting lately.”

Akira’s face reddens in an impressive imitation of his sunburnt shoulders, and Ryo is certain the horror _(humiliation)_ in his expression is a wonderful companion piece.

“...Duly noted.” He manages after a slight pause. And there’s an undercurrent behind it, a language they’ve learned to speak in the lines of mutual understanding and maybe, something like friendship. _Thank you._

There’s a catch of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“Just don’t let it happen again. Oh— and Ryo?”

He makes a noncommittal noise in response, finger hovering over the end-call, ready to end this weird bit of sentimentality.

“The world isn’t always out to get you. Enjoy it a little.”

There’s a dull, tinny click when Michael disconnects.

 _You’re welcome_.

**i.**

Later in the hotel room, when Ryo has made Akira's voice raw and hoarse with his name— he asks:

"I can't believe you two broke up over that one time. _Really_?"

Akira throws him an incredulous look because generally, you don't discuss your ex-girlfriend with someone else's cum dripping out of you. But in retrospect, it's hardly the weirdest pillowtalk they've engaged in.

“...Yes? She was pissed, but it was pretty clear the anger was more about the disrespect than actually... having feelings for me." He shrugs, shifting onto his back with a light wince. "We both agreed that dating was a forced conclusion to how close we've always been. We were just.... I dunno. Together for so long, I wasn't really able to understand the difference until I met you.”

Ryo's ego preens at the idea that he'd inadvertently fucked some sense into Akira, and the smug curl of his mouth makes it completely apparent.

“...Don't give me that look." The producer chastises. "It was still a shitty thing to do, but that’s between me and Miki. I regret the way it happened but..."

“...but you don’t regret that it did.” Ryo concludes for him.

“Wow, you’re learning.”

“I don’t regret either of those things, by the way.” He can't help but add, and now it's Akira's turn to swat at him.

“You’re an asshole, of course you don’t.” It isn’t said with as much malice as fact, and Ryo’s eyes narrow when he realizes Michael’s been rubbing off on him, too.

“Well, yeah.” He concedes lamely. “ But I’m trying to be... I’m trying to be better. For you.”

The sentiment is unexpectedly sweet despite the half-hearted shrug it's delivered with. And he can tell Akira is helplessly charmed by it, roping him in for a kiss pushed against his temple.

“I am too." He murmurs, dragging up to nose affectionately against the crown of his head. "Sorry for not being honest the entire time.”

"I mean, it's not like your judgment was.... incorrect.” He admits wryly. “Lie to me again and I’ll ruin your career, but I wouldn’t have— This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn't played it that way. You were right and I’m… I’m fine with that.”

Akira hums in response, fingers twirling a wick of blonde hair with absentminded ease. It's only after a moment that he lets his smile widen into something knowing, teasing.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Ryo, that I am always right. _Always_.”

The retort has him laughing, but a deeper part of him can't help but think how _hard_  this is, to find footing in a world where hurricanes can brew inside his chest. When something so small feels so full with things that can overwhelm him, pour over him, drown him.

But rain can wash away. And cleanse, And give way to the growth of something new, and bright, and beautiful. And even if Ryo might hate swimming, hate the capricious push and pull of the tide— he supposes there are exceptions to every rule.

"No" His snicker is petulant, a smirk curving against Akira's chest, right above his heart. "No, You’re not."

But this time Ryo finds himself hoping, above all else, that he is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic was sponsored by la croix and the english ova dub thanks
> 
> Sorry for finishing this up so late!! I ended up trying to rework the second half after finding out some things™. But it wasn’t working out and eventually I went back to the original draft. But at that point my desire to work on this was at zero and i just wanted to wash my hands of it. so the last few sections were definitely rushed, and show it. ORZ
> 
> This is actually the first fic I’ve posted in uh 6 years holy shit. And only the second full fic i’ve posted….uh ever. I’m trying to write a bit more this year, so all the feedback has been super encouraging— thank you!! ;;


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